Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/304

While the Naiads like Bacchantes,
 Wild, with urns thrown out to waste,
Cry—"O earth, that thou wouldst grant us
 Springs to keep, of such a taste!"

But for me, I am not worthy
 After gods and Greeks to drink;
And my lips are pale and earthy,
 To go bathing from this brink!
Since you heard them speak the last time,
 They have faded from their blooms;
And the laughter of my pastime
 Has learned silence at the tombs.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers
 Crowned the cup and crowned the brow!
Can I answer the old thinkers
 In the forms they thought of, now?
Who will fetch from garden-closes
 Some new garlands while I speak,
That the forehead, crowned with roses,
 May strike scarlet down the cheek?

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
 Suits no wreath again, indeed!
I am sad-voiced as the turtle,
 Which Anacreon used to feed:
Yet as that same bird demurely
 Wet her beak in cup of his,—
So, without a garland, surely
 I may touch the brim of this.

Go!—let others praise the Chian!—
 This is soft as Muses' string—
This is tawny as Rhea's lion,
 This is rapid as its spring,—
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us,
 Light as ever trod her feet!